High up-turn’d appear’d her tunic, Half her breast and hip disclosing; Torchlight, moonlight both were playing Gaily round her snowy members. White as marble were her features, Cold as marble too; and fearful Was the numbness and the paleness Of that face, so stern and noble. Yet within her black eye plainly Terribly but sweetly sparkled A mysterious, glowing fire, Spirit-dazzling and consuming. O, how alter’d was Diana Who, with haughty chastity, To a stag once turn’d Acteon, And as prey to dogs abandon’d! Does she expiate this crime now Join’d to these gallant companions? Like a wretched spectral creature Nightly through the air she travels. Late, indeed, but all the stronger She to thoughts of lust awakens, And within her eyes ’tis burning, Like a very brand of hell. All the lost time now laments she, When mankind were far more handsome And by quantity perchance she Now makes up for quality. Close beside her rode a beauty Whose fair features were not chisell’d In such Grecian mould, yet glisten’d With the Celtic race’s charms. This one was the fay Abunde, Whom I easily distinguish’d By the sweetness of her smile, And her mad and hearty laughter! Hale and rosy were her features, As though limn’d by Master Greuze; Heart-shaped was her mouth, and open, Showing teeth of dazzling whiteness. Night-dress blue and flutt’ring wore she, That the wind to lift attempted; Even in my brightest visions Never saw I such fair shoulders! Scarcely could I keep from springing Out of window to embrace them; Ill should I have fared, however, For my neck should I have broken. She, alas! would but have titter’d If before her feet, all-bleeding, In the deep abyss I tumbled,-- Ah! a laugh like this well know I! And the third of those fair women, Who so deeply stirr’d thy bosom,-- Was she but a female devil Like the other two first mention’d? Whether devil she or angel, Know I not; in case of women One knows never where the angel Ceases, and the deuce commences. On her glowing sickly features Lay an oriental charm, And her costly robes reminded Of Schehezerade’s sweet stories. Soft her lips, just like pomegranates, And her nose a bending lily, And her members cool and slender As the palms in the oasis. On a snowy palfrey sat she, Whose gold bridle by two negroes Was conducted, who on foot By the princess’ side were walking. And in truth she was a princess, Was the queen of far Judæa, Was the lovely wife of Herod, Who the Baptist’s head demanded. For this deed of blood she also Was accurs’d, and as a spectre With the wild hunt must keep riding, Even to the day of judgment.